


To Sit Outside Your Door

by floweringscrubs



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Wings, but just briefly, flaming swords and cursed apples, newly requited love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 10:36:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20357062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floweringscrubs/pseuds/floweringscrubs
Summary: Crowley looks up, down, side to side, anywhere but into the blue eyes of his angel, who stands on the precipice of saying something so horridlyblessed.He knows what the angel means, of course he knows. He’s been on this earth, drunk with this angel far too many times to not have figured out what he’s trying to say. But he needs to hear it, he needs to know it's true, so he resigns himself to it and glances up just once at Aziraphale’s perfect, lovely face.





	To Sit Outside Your Door

**Author's Note:**

> Its apparently just life now that my fic titles are loosely related song lyrics

“And to think--!” Aziraphale exclaims, a giggle in his voice, gesturing dramatically towards Crowley with his whiskey glass. 

A particularly poignant lightning strike illuminates the room then, the angel’s flushed face momentarily bathed in white light. He laughs harder at the ensuing thunder crack, dribbling a few drops of drink on his shirt as he takes another sip. 

Crowley rolls his eyes, drinking from an identical glass in what he fully believes is a much more refined manner, thank you very much. 

In reality, the two are equally schnockered, half unbuttoned and practically draped over the dusty furniture of Aziraphale’s bookshop. They’ve spent much of the past days like this, in fact. Facing down heaven and hell deserved a bit of celebration, and time-- well human time was so damn  _ linear _ anyway-- seems to have gotten away from them. 

It takes another crack of thunder and a smattering of rain against the windows to remind Crowley that they were, in fact, having a conversation (at least to their pickled minds they were, an onlooker might disagree) and he sits up a fraction of an inch, peering over his glasses at the angel. 

“And to think?” he prompts, mimicking his gesture with the tumbler.

“Ah yes,” Aziraphale sits up himself, making to straighten his jacket and waistcoat before remembering he’d removed them both, several hours earlier, and all that was left was his dress shirt-- sleeves cuffed, just once. (A fact that Crowley was doing a very active job of not thinking about, until the angel went and drew attention to it, yet again, the bastard) 

“And to think, all of this -- the last six bloody thousand years! Could have been completely avoided if I’d just… if I hadn’t cared so much, back in the garden.” 

Crowley scrubs his face with his free hand, smudging his forgotten glasses hopelessly before simply discarding them to the side and squinting at Aziraphale. 

“Angel what on earth are you going on about?” 

“I just had to be nice, didn’t I? I couldn’t have known back then I’d turn out to be so fond of the humans and their free will. Heaven’s sake I didn’t even know I’d ever see you again! But… but I figured you were one of god’s creatures too, even if you had just tempted the first sin. And I… I liked you, I guess! No sense in letting you melt.” 

Crowley stares on, dumbfounded, the angel’s speech processing through his brain in a gelatinous haze.

He’s giggling again-- the adorable bastard-- when Crowley finally thinks about all the words he’s just said and focuses back in. 

“But I did care, didn't I? How was I to know they'd keep sending you to… To  _ foment  _ and all that? To deliver the antichrist, ho! I didn't want to see you…  _ Undone _ and I couldn’t just miracle up a holy little umbrella for you, could I? They hadn’t even been invented yet!! So I had to go and do it myself!” 

An inkling of dread creeps into Crowley’s being, his brain interpreting what the angel means a few moments before he’s aware of it. Suddenly scrambling, he begins to sober up just as the very drunk angel has an entirely incongruous idea. 

Before he can even protest, Crowley finds himself in St. James Park, entirely sober, soaking wet, and wishing he hadn’t forgone the sunglasses. Aziraphale, drunk and disheveled and nearly glowing, smiles unrestrained-- lopsided and stupid and beautiful-- and summons up his wings with a dull  _ flump.  _

He moves next to Crowley, so much more closely this time, gripping his arm and raising a wing over the demon’s head, blocking the rain just as he had standing on the wall of Eden. 

“And to think--” he starts again, quieter and sober now, “If I hadn't cared in the garden, I wouldn't have all of this--” he gestures vaguely, the whole of six thousand years wrapped up in a simple twirl of the wrist. 

“I wouldn't have  _ you,  _ now. Even then, I couldn’t bear the thought of you…” 

Turning to face his friend, Aziraphale lets his wings fade away as he grips Crowley’s other arm, holding him tight just a few inches away, rain traveling down his hair and face in unrelenting rivulets. 

Crowley looks up, down, side to side, anywhere but into the blue eyes of his angel, who stands on the precipice of saying something so horridly  _ blessed. _

He knows what the angel means, of course he  knows _ .  _ He’s been on this earth, drunk with this angel far too many times to not have figured out what he’s trying to say. But he needs to hear it, he needs to know it's true, so he resigns himself to it and glances up just once at Aziraphale’s perfect, lovely face. 

“It was… it was holy water? You… you?” 

“Protected you dear, yes.” 

The affirmation is said so cooly now, almost with a laugh, and it takes Aziraphale a long, puzzled moment to read Crowley’s entirely wrecked face. He trembles with it, a six-thousand year old realization, only remaining in one place for the fact they’re clinging to each other’s arms now, grips near to bruising. 

“You didn’t know.” 

The words are hollow, breathed. It’s not a question and the angel demands no answer. For millennia they’ve been crossing paths and the last decade practically living together and he hadn’t known. Hadn’t known that, from the beginning, the angel had given a damn, that he’d… he’d felt… something. 

He hadn’t known that, once upon a time a lovely, obsidian scaled, fire bellied serpent had gifted the human race with free will and an angel had allowed them safe passage through the desert and God had thought it right to bless the garden herself, cleanse it of the thing she thought to be a sin.

And Aziraphale, standing a-top that wall, flaming sword long gone, had watched that same serpent shift into an oil-slick winged, copper haired demon. And even then he’d thought there was nothing, nothing dirty or sinful or deserving of heavenly smite about him. 

And so he'd raised a pearly white wing over his head, watching on as Holy torrents washed away cursed apples, preserving the being that hell intended to be his direct antithesis. He'd sheltered a demon from certain destruction, and he'd  _ cared,  _ ultimately catalysing the events of the next six millennia.

And that demon, the one standing inches from him in the park in London, in the twenty first century, soaking in terribly human rain,  _ his…  _ well, he'd never been a demon to Aziraphale exactly. His Crowley, had been none the wiser.

Aziraphale looks up again, meeting Crowley’s golden, slitted eyes. They glitter with uncertainty and fear and the painful realization that he is, was, and has been  _ loved.  _

Before he can say anything, Crowley finds himself yanked down by the shirt. Finds soft, pink lips bruising against his own. Finds a whimper escaping an angelic throat, written over with centuries of penance for a secret he hadn’t meant to keep. 

The pair are back in the bookshop with hardly a thought, dry and warm and still kissing, oh thank someone, still kissing. 

Aziraphale pulls back a moment, slinking his arms around Crowley’s waist and pressing their foreheads together. 

“I love you,” he whispers, low and gravelly, “I guess I have since Eden.” And he kisses him again. 

**Author's Note:**

> I would love to talk about Good Omens and/or writing over on floweringscrubs.tumblr.com


End file.
